The Law of the Trigger (2 page)

Nothing was too large or too small. It seemed that the Brunners and their gang of ignorant hill boys robbed and killed for the sheer pleasure of it.

Beneath his folds of fat, McKeever writhed in rage when he speculated on the possibility that his vision, his empire, might be destroyed because of this small band of stupid cutthroats that hid in the hills, struck like panthers, vanished like smoke.

Often McKeever had cursed himself for supporting Will Cushman for county sheriff. At the time it had seemed the right move. He had been afraid of Toller. The man had a mind of his own, thought as he pleased, and did his job to his own satisfaction only. McKeever would not support a man who refused to take orders.

Besides, how would it look to the Easterners if the county elected a gunsharp for sheriff? They'd think this was still a wilderness, where differences were settled with guns, and they would look around for a more civilized place to invest their capital.

Cushman had seemed the right man for the job. He was easygoing, well liked, a good talker and campaigner. But McKeever had overlooked two things in selecting the man: experience and guts. Cushman had neither.

But Toller would come around, McKeever told himself, to the tune of whirring buggy wheels. If he doesn't, I'll make it so hot for him he'll fold up on that farm inside a year!

Back at the farmhouse, Owen stood at the front door watching the black buggy disappear at the bottom of the slope. He was not a quick man to anger, but the banker had angered him, and it showed now in every line of his angular face.

Elizabeth came into the room. “Is Mr. McKeever gone already?”

“Yes,” Owen said, not turning.

“What did he want?” his wife asked anxiously.

“He wants me to go after the Brunner gang.” Then he turned and saw the fear in Elizabeth's eyes and knew that he had made a mistake. His laugh was forced, but it served to ease the tension, and he stepped quickly to his wife and folded his big arms around her. “I told him no,” he said. “I told him it was a job for the county sheriff.”

“Oh, Owen,” she said weakly, “don't scare me like that!”

He laughed again, and this time it was a free and rolling sound, unbridled by anger. Then suddenly he was quiet and sober. Tilting his wife's chin gently and looking at her, he said, “This was just a crazy notion that Ben had. I told him where I stood.”

“But will Ben take no for an answer? Owen, you know how he can be when he sets his head on something.”

“Ben will have to take what answer I give him.”

But Elizabeth didn't appear convinced, and as Owen held her, he guessed what was in her mind. In the days before their marriage, uncertainty and anxiety had always been with her. In her dreams she had seen them bring Owen home, tied face down across a saddle, as she had seen others return from man hunts.

“Remember when we were married?” he asked. “I promised that I was through being a law-enforcement officer. I meant it then, and I still mean it.”

And he did mean it.

But later, as he walked back to his field of cotton, he warned himself: It's not going to be easy. He knew how much this thing meant to Ben McKeever. The banker wanted the Brunner gang run out of the hills. He wanted the railroad, and he would stop at nothing to get it.

The Stanley boys had worked their way down to the far corner of the field and were now coming back, chopping grass and weeds from between the tender cotton plants. Owen waved and went to work on another row, moving toward them.

He worked with a steady, machine-like swing of the hoe, enjoying the fragrance of fresh-turned dirt. His mind was free to think as it would, and soon he put Ben McKeever out of his thoughts and turned to more pleasant things of the future.

He glanced across the creek at the small patch of corn, and beyond that to the long field of native Johnson grass. The grass made fair hay for the livestock, but still it seemed an extravagant waste of fertile bottomland, and Owen had been working steadily at clearing it out for grain and cotton.

Over to the east, adjoining Owen's fields, was the Stanley place. Clint Stanley had two good boys, but the father himself leaned toward the shiftless. He sent his boys out to work for others while his own cotton grew up in grass. Someday, Owen knew, Clint would get enough of the farm and let it go. And on that day, Owen, in the eye of his mind, saw his own fields stretching out as far as he could see, to the farthest limits of the Stanley place.

Of course, it would take money to swing such a deal, but a man with a good name would have no trouble getting money.

Or would he?

Involuntarily, Owen began thinking again of Ben McKeever. Would the banker stop his credit in Reunion? It was a possibility that had to be faced.

Well, he thought at last, if that's the way Ben wants it, I guess that's the way it'll have to be. I'm not going back on my promise to Elizabeth.

Kneeling in the soft earth to file the hoe, Owen thought it again. I'll not go back on my promise!

“I want to go to town with Pa!” Lonnie complained.

“Your mother and little brother need a man to look after them while I'm away,” Owen said. “That's your job.”

The three-year-old boy was unimpressed with this gift of responsibility, but he was old enough to know by his pa's voice that he would not be going to Reunion.

Elizabeth made out a list of things she needed for the house. “Leave this at De Witt's store first thing,” she said, “or you'll forget it.” She did not look at him, but busied herself with small things as they talked.

Owen was faintly puzzled. Elizabeth had seemed nervous all morning, which wasn't like her. After he got the team hitched, he brought the wagon around to the back door and called, “Is there anything else you want?”

Elizabeth came out to the wagon, and now he knew that something was bothering her. “Owen,” she said carefully, “if Ben McKeever tries to talk to you...”

He did not laugh. When he had been deputy marshal, it had too often been his duty to inform women like Elizabeth that their husbands were dead; had died on some lonely hilltop, or on some crowded street, or in a saloon, in a brush with some kill-crazy outlaw. There was a cause, always. Owen had believed in it, and more than likely the dead man had believed in it, but he never could explain to the widow just what the cause was or why it was more important than her husband's life.

“Don't worry,” Owen said gently. “Ben McKeever can't talk me into anything.”

It was well past noon when Owen tied up in the alley behind Main Street. Reunion was crowded that Saturday, as it was every Saturday. This was the day for farmers and their families to come out of the hills and enjoy the brief excitement of town life. A few blanket Indians moved blandly through the milling people, picking at gawdy bolts of material in the stores. Cow hands over from the old Cherokee Strip were making their rowdy rounds of the blind pigs.

Owen had already dropped his plow off at the blacksmith's, and now he walked leisurely along the packed-clay sidewalk of Main Street, nodding and speaking to old friends and acquaintances, gazing with vague interest at the displays in store windows. When he came to Al De Witt's Boomer Mercantile, he went in and waved Elizabeth's list at the storekeeper.

“Will you get these things together for me, Al? I'll be around to pick them up in an hour or so.”

De Witt, a frail, fluttery man with a glistening bald head, broke away from two Osage squaws and moved up the counter to Owen.

“How are you, Owen?” the little man said, glancing toward the door.

Owen's eyebrows lifted a fraction of an inch. De Witt looked even more nervous and fluttery than usual, and now the storekeeper took a handkerchief and carefully mopped his face and the back of his neck.

“What's the matter, Al?”

“Well...” The storekeeper swallowed. “You see, Owen, it's...” Finally he took the list from Owen and glanced at it. “I'm sorry, Owen, but I'm afraid I can't fill this order for you.”

“Why not?”

“You see, Owen...” He glanced again toward the door. “That is, I don't think I've got all the things on hand. Maybe one of the other places could fill it for you.”

“But this is the only place that carries my account, Al. You know that. Look,” he said with a heartiness that he didn't feel, “you go on and fill it the best you can, and Elizabeth will understand.”

De Witt would not look at Owen. He kept glancing nervously at the door. “I'm afraid I can't do it.” He shook his head. “I just can't.”

Owen's curiosity was becoming a slow, warm anger. He scowled down on the small storekeeper and said coolly, You mean you won't, Al. What's the matter? Isn't my credit any good these days?”

De Witt stared down at his hands and drummed his fingers on the counter. “I guess that's about the size of it, Owen.”

Owen came erect suddenly, as though he had been slapped. Never in his life had he been turned down for credit, and never had he failed to pay his bills every quarter. That De Witt was now cutting off his credit struck him as a personal insult. In anger he turned on his heel and started toward the door, and only then did it occur to him that this was Ben McKeever's doing.

He stopped near the door, smiling thinly. It never paid to underestimate McKeever; the man had his hand in everything, and no doubt Al De Witt was in debt to him himself. Owen walked slowly back to the counter and laid down the list.

“I think I understand, Al. Go ahead and fill it, and I'll pay cash when I pick it up.”

The storekeeper stared in grateful surprise, but all he said was “Sure, Owen. That'll be fine.”

Outside, Owen paused in front of De Witt's, making a visible effort to keep his anger under control. So McKeever had put the pressure on De Witt, and De Witt was made to put the pressure on Owen. Stay calm, Owen told himself, and think this thing out. Don't go off half cocked and do something you'll be sorry for later.

McKeever's running a bluff, he told himself, wanting to believe it. But Ben is a sensible man and his customers are my friends. He wouldn't risk turning those people against him; he'll call off the bluff when he sees I won't be brought to heel.

That seemed to make sense. A smart man knew where to stop a bluff, and no one had accused Ben McKeever of being stupid. As Owen thought about it, he was almost convinced that Ben was merely testing him. To prove to himself that he was right, he turned abruptly and started walking south on Main Street, toward McKeever's bank.

McKeever had his desk on the north side of the bank, behind a stained-oak railing, and the fat man looked up, smiling, when Owen came through the front door.

“Hello, Toller. Looks like quite a crowd in town to day.”

“Hello, Ben.” Owen was glad that he had his voice and anger completely under control. He even smiled as he approached the banker's desk.

“Anything I can do for you, Owen?” Toller shook his head. “I guess not, Ben.” He walked up to the teller's cage. He could feel the banker's eyes on his back as he made the withdrawal. Ben knows to the penny how much I've got, he thought. Less than four hundred dollars.

It wasn't much, Owen decided, but it might be enough to outlast the banker's bluff. McKeever looked faintly disappointed when Owen nodded pleasantly on his way out. He knows he's lost, Owen thought. He's just wondering how he can back down gracefully.

But in the back of his mind he knew that McKeever held a strong hand if he wanted to play it out. Owen worried this knowledge for a moment, then decided there was nothing he could do about it but wait.

There were several things to be attended to-bolts and nails to be bought at Coulter's hardware, a horse collar at the saddlery, and finally a sack of gum-drop orange slices and peppermint sticks for Lonnie and Giles. He took his load back to De Witt's to be picked up later with Elizabeth's order.

It was two o'clock by the fancy timepiece in Emmit's Jewelry Store, and Owen knew that he ought to be starting back for the farm if he wanted to get home before dark. Still, there was something else to be done.

Owen seldom came to Reunion without stopping at the courthouse to visit with his old friend Arch Deland. If a man wanted to get the news as it actually was, without distortion or fanciful coloring, Arch Deland was the person to go to. If Arch ever had an imagination, it had withered and died long ago; he was one of the few old-timers left in the state who still dared call a spade a spade, politics be damned. Which, Owen thought, is one good reason why he'll never climb higher than a deputy for Will Cushman.

Owen climbed the stone steps to the red-brick building that was the courthouse, then made his way down to the sandstone-floored basement where the sheriff's office was. The only man in the room was Will Cushman. “Hello, Sheriff,” Owen said mildly. Will looked up from some paperwork, startled at first. Then his face broke into a wide smile. “Why, hello, Toller. Glad to see you. Pull up a chair.” Just a little too glad to see me, Owen thought quietly. Cushman was a smooth-faced, youngish-looking man in his late thirties, well set up, but soft. Damn if he doesn't look more like a gambler than a sheriff, Owen thought, observing Will's spotless white shirt and pearl-gray cravat, his blue serge suit and polished shoes.

Owen said, “No, thanks, Will. I was just looking for Arch Deland.” He wondered vaguely how far McKeever's hand reached into the sheriff's office.

“Oh,” the sheriff said, as though he were disappointed. “I'm not sure where Arch is. You might find him over by the Sutherland feed store. Farm wagons were blocking the street and I sent him over.”

“Thanks,” Owen nodded. “I'll have a look.”

He found Deland coming out of the Red Dot Cafe, beside the feed store. He must be close to sixty, Owen thought in faint surprise. That's funny; I've never thought of Arch as an old man before.

But he was an old man-gray and grizzled, tough as jerked beef, dangerous and experienced. But old. He wore faded waist overalls, knee-high boots, and a patched hickory shirt. An old-style converted Colt's Frontier, completely without glamour, hung in its battered holster on his right thigh. Now Arch Deland came toward Owen with a lean, outstretched hand.

“By God,” he said,
“all
the sodbusters come to town.”

They shook hands warmly, exchanged the usual words of greeting. In his mind, Owen recalled those days, not so long ago, when he and Arch had worked together out of Fort Smith as deputy U.S. marshals. Oklahoma had been Indian territory then, and statehood no more than a dream.

They talked jokingly of the Toller farm and about the crops. And Owen thought back to other days, harsh and brutal, of mass hangings on the courthouse square at Fort Smith, of man hunts and sudden violence. All that was over, they said. Statehood was here. The Jameses and the Doolins had made their infamous history, and all the violence, so they said, was over. As though a vote of Congress would make any difference in the minds of men like Ike and Cal Brunner.

They talked of Elizabeth and the kids. And Owen thought back to a certain day in the Choctaw Nation. He had lain in the snow on that bitter winter day, and the snow was red and his legs were paralyzed with buckshot. And Arch Deland had said, “Don't worry, kid, I'll get you back to Smith all right.” And he did; a nameless outlaw following behind, face down across a pack horse.

Now, as Owen looked at Arch Deland, it was strange that he should think, How much do they want of a man? Arch has done enough! But he guessed that being a lawman was all Arch knew.

At last the talk got around to Owen. “Did you talk to Cushman?” Arch asked.

“Just to ask where I could find you.”

“He didn't mention the Brunner gang?” Owen frowned.

“Why should he have mentioned the Brunners to me?”

Deland shrugged. “It was just a guess. There's a lot of pressure on Cushman to clean the Brunners out of the hills, but I guess Will hasn't got the guts it takes for that kind of business.”

“I don't see that it would take a special kind of guts,” Owen said. “Will doesn't have to go after the gang himself; he could send his deputies after them.”

Deland laughed. “You haven't been to town lately, have you? Will tried that once, and the Brunners whipped them seven ways from Sunday. What deputies didn't get shot up, they quit. All Cushman has to do is say Brunner and he's got a complete turnover in the sheriff's office.”

“You haven't quit,” Owen pointed out. Deland laughed again.

“Maybe I would if Will sent me into the hills. But he won't. At my age he figures all I'm good for is keeping the streets clear of wagons on Saturdays. And maybe he's right.”

“I still don't understand why it should be so tough to clean out a gang of trigger-happy hill boys,” Owen said. “Why doesn't Will get up a citizen posse and go after them? A hundred men, if he has to. The Brunners couldn't fight an action like that.”

Deland smiled thinly. “A good idea, but it won't work. First, Will would be expected to go along with a citizen posse, and that he won't do. And even if he would, it wouldn't work, because the Brunners would scatter the gang from hell to breakfast all over Oklahoma and Arkansas. Those boys may be book-ignorant, but they're as hill-smart as they come.” He shook his head. “A posse wouldn't nave a chance.”

Owen asked the question, although he already knew the answer. “Then who
would
have a chance?”

“One or two good men,” Deland said mildly, “dead shots and as hill-smart as the Brunners. They'd have to go in and take the two brothers, and then the gang would fall apart. By the way, has Ben McKeever been out to talk to you?”

In one way or another Arch Deland knew almost everything that happened in this country north of the Canadian, and Owen shouldn't have been surprised. But he was. “What makes you ask that?”

Deland grinned. “Well, Ben owns a lot of timber up in those hills. He'd sure hate for anything to happen that might spoil his chances of getting a railroad through here.”

Owen shook his head. “How could the Brunners hold up a thing as big as a railroad?”

“By scaring the pants off the advance surveyors for the company. And they've already done a pretty good job of that. Those boys have to send reports back to New York, and from those reports the big boys with the money decide where the track goes.”